


Incandescent

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Temporary Character Death, felicity is mad as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Felicity had imagined Oliver’s homecoming a thousand different ways. It had never occurred to her that her initial reaction upon seeing the face of the man she loved beyond all reason -- and thought *for sure* she’d lost -- would be incandescent rage. <b>Spoilers for S3, up to and including "The Climb" and its fallout</b>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incandescent

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to my awesome ladies, jomarchfwf, youguysimserious, katelinnea, and carogables.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. Not my 'verse.

Felicity had imagined Oliver’s homecoming a thousand different ways. 

It had never occurred to her that her initial reaction upon seeing the face of the man she loved beyond all reason -- and thought _for sure_ she’d lost -- would be incandescent rage.

But that, as it turns out, is exactly what happens.

Because he shows up on her doorstep with a cautious smile.

Because she doesn’t understand what’s going on and she _hates_ mysteries.

But mostly because he’d _willingly left for a fight to the death_ nearly two months earlier. As hard as she’s tried to get past it, she’s been stuck in the _anger_ phase of her grief for weeks on end, muscles corded with tension, her mouth in grim, sad lines whenever she’s not forced to put on a semi-believable facade. 

Then when she’s alone, nearly every night, she sobs and weeps and _grieves_ for him, for the loss of his light and his heart and his courage, for the death of all of their maybes along with him. She knows he’s dead. _Knows_ it and she tries so hard for acceptance, but underneath everything is this dry, all-consuming rage.

It’s not fair.

Sara’s death wasn’t fair. Oliver’s death wasn’t fair. The injustice of it all makes her tense, makes her grind her teeth, makes her understand, finally, Oliver’s need for a physical outlet when his emotions become too raw. 

Makes her understand _Oliver_ a little better, now that it’s too late to matter. 

Which makes her even madder. It never stops, it never gives her a moment of peace, just unrelenting, undulating anger.

And then for him to just _show up_ on her doorstep -- a little smaller, a little frailer, though she is too infuriated to really take all of that in just yet -- she doesn’t understand. When she yanks the door open, her first, insane instinct is to slam it shut in his face.

Oliver’s tentative smile fades fast, and he steps forward, one hand coming up to keep the door from closing. “Felicity?” he asks, his voice so hauntingly, achingly familiar, and she is acting out of sheer self-preservation now.

She makes an inhuman noise of anger and frustration, whirling on her heel and stalking away from him. Her emotions gush to the forefront -- the grief and the tears and the rage that she’s been so carefully keeping under wraps with every bit of self-control she’s learned over the years. Mostly under wraps. At least in public.

But she’s home and either he’s _here_ or she’s having some sort of mental break, and it’s too much. She’s half-convinced she’s hallucinating. Because _her_ Oliver would have called or emailed or _something_ as soon as he could. _Her_ Oliver would’ve contact her as soon as he regained consciousness. _Her_ Oliver wouldn’t let her suffer an additional _however many_ hours it took him to get from _wherever_ to her front stoop.

“Felicity,” he says her name warily. “Are you--?”

“I can’t _believe_ you!” she shouts, and -- oh, she’s crying. She hadn’t realized, but her voice comes out waterlogged and uneven, and then she can feel the wetness on her cheeks. “You left! You died!” He opens his mouth to speak -- probably to confirm the obvious about his state of not-dead -- but her words tumble out faster. “You said I wouldn’t lose you, and I _did_ , and you’re here and you didn’t even _call_ me to say you weren’t dead? For _two months_?”

“That’s not--” He stops, presses his lips together, then tries again, “I was out of it for... “ he shrugs, “I don’t know, Felicity. Weeks?”

“I have been losing my mind,” she says. Shouts, maybe. “I quit the team -- did you know that? I couldn’t bear the thought of watching anyone else die, so I walked away. Because your death--” She shakes her head, choking on the words, resisting them even with him standing in front of her very obviously alive. “You _died_.”

His expression pained, Oliver moves slowly closer, and she feels crowded, pushed, just -- _overwhelmed_ and before she knows what she’s doing, she has her palms planted on his chest to shove him away from her.

Stunned, Oliver rocks back half a step, his wide, surprised eyes fixed on her face.

Felicity claps both hands over her mouth and stares back through her tears.

Because it’s painfully real. _He’s_ real. He’s alive, solid and warm beneath her palms, even for the little time she’d touched him to push him away.

What is she _doing_ pushing him away?

Her hands are gripping his biceps before she realized she’s moved, and she is up on her tiptoes, her lips insistent against his. This time, he stumbles back a step, and she falls into his chest, their mouths bumping together, and it would hurt, maybe, if she were able to feel anything besides this massive, adrenaline-fueled relief welling in her chest. 

Oliver is _alive_. And he is kissing her back enthusiastically. Passionately. And it’s so much better than she’s ever let herself imagine.

She realizes his arms are banded tight around her back, crushing their bodies together, which makes it kind of hard to breathe, but she doesn’t care at all. Not when he’s _here_. She’s burning from the inside out again, but it’s not rage. It’s something akin to desperation. She doesn’t let herself try to figure it out, just lets herself sink further into everything.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmurs into his mouth, rocking back onto her heels, her hands sliding up his shoulders, around his neck while she kisses the corner of his jaw, tracing the stubble down his neck with her tongue. Her fingers are clutching at him, even as his grip on her loosens.

“Felicity, we should--”

“No,” she interrupts, pressing the full length of her body into his. He groans in response, and bends his head down, breathing warm and heavy on her neck.

Breathing. He’s _breathing_. Her eyes sting with even more tears and she forces herself to take a steadying breath.

“Felicity.” Oliver has his hands on her arms, now, and is easing her away from him. 

She is filled with sudden dread. “No,” she repeats, panic blooming in her chest. What if he doesn’t want this? What if he’s just checking in with her before going back to his stubborn, stupid ways? 

What if she has him back only to continue the emotionally draining push and pull?

Felicity is frozen in his grip, staring at her own hands against his chest, studying the way she has grasped handfuls of his sweater with a strange detachment. She remembers what Merlyn said, that Oliver was stabbed, and suddenly she is moving again, precise and determined as she tugs at his shirt.

“Felicity,” he tries again, “we should talk.”

She ignores him, and he must finally realize what she’s doing, because he helps her by pulling his sweater off. Felicity doesn’t miss the slight wince he makes with the movement, but her attention immediately refocuses on the angry pink scar on his chest. It’s far too large and in a really scary place and her fingers are shaking badly when she touches it, lightly, just along one edge. 

Oliver flinches, just the slightest bit, and he’s holding his breath. She looks up at him with tear-filled eyes. “Oliver?”

He smiles at her, that warm, wide smile that she feels all the way down to her toes. “I’m okay. I promise.” He ducks his head a bit, swaying closer, studying her, and she’s self-conscious, suddenly. She’s been home for two hours, and is wearing flannel pajama pants and one of his grey hoodies over a tank top. Her makeup is off, and she’s been crying. From the concerned expression on his face, he can tell. “Are _you_ okay?” he asks.

Her laugh is short and has a strange, sharp edge of hysteria to it. “I have no idea,” she answers honestly. “I haven’t been okay. At all. But you’re here. So I should be. But it’s...” She trails off, shaking her head. 

His hand covers hers, flattening her palm against the fresh scar. “I’m here, and I’m sorry it took me so long.”

She shakes her head, because -- because -- he’s here, but just barely. God, he’d come so close to dying. Gently, she turns her hand in his, clasping them together and lifting so she can press a soft kiss to the back of his hand. Then she leans forward and kisses the scar.

Oliver hisses, his chest twitching beneath her lips. “Felicity,” he breathes, his grip on her hand tightening. He kisses the crown of her head and murmurs, “I missed you.”

She’s still shaky, still unsure, and she loops both arms around his rib cage to just hold him for a moment. “I _mourned_ you,” she confesses, her cheek pressed against his warm skin. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

His hands slide slowly up and down her sides, along her spine, grounding her somehow. “I think I dreamed about you, Felicity. I dreamed about _this_.”

Felicity’s mind blanks. Just... shuts down for a long moment. Because Oliver dreaming about her? Is not a thing that makes sense to her. “Oliver...” 

“Dying provides a lot of clarity,” he says.

Everything snaps back into focus. Even though he’s here, breathing and alive in front of her, the thought of him dying... It’s so terrifying that it takes her a long moment to register what he’s trying to say.

Or maybe just what she hopes he’s trying to say. She pulls back enough to meet his gaze. “Oliver?” Her voice is shaking again, but it’s not anger anymore, and it’s not desperation. It’s... she thinks maybe it’s hope.

Oliver grins down at her. “I love you,” he says, with the tiniest of head shakes, the suggestion of a shrug. 

Felicity wants to say that she’s heard this before, that he’s told her on a few occasions and then walked away each time. She doesn’t really know how to ask him whether he _means_ it the way she needs. “Are you--?” She closes her mouth, at a loss.

“I’m _here_ , Felicity,” he repeats, but he’s using that tone -- that somber, earnest tone that makes whatever he’s saying sound like a vow. “I came straight to you. You’re...” he pauses a bit, shrugging. “When I thought about coming home -- and I thought about it _all the time_ , when I could barely breathe, right up until I got back to Starling -- I didn’t picture the foundry, or the loft, or even the mansion.”

Felicity is holding her breath, because she knows. She _knows_ what he’s going to say.

“The only thing I pictured was you, Felicity.”

She swallows hard, cursing the lump in her throat that will make this so much harder to say than it should be. It feels like it’s always been true. A universal constant. Her hands slide around to his chest, one protectively covering his newest scar, the other against his sternum, where she can feel his heartbeat. And she smiles. “I love you, Oliver.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This story started [on tumblr](http://machaswicket.tumblr.com/post/108746542517/scu11y22-machaswicket-replied-to-your-post), in a discussion of how I would like to see Angry!Felicity shove Oliver against the wall and have her way with him like Tara did to Jax on Sons of Anarchy. And then I started writing and -- yeah, sorry. That's... not what happened. So yeah. Here's what I wrote instead. I'm... sorry?


End file.
